


A Farewell to Arms

by redfuryy



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-12-27 07:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21115325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redfuryy/pseuds/redfuryy
Summary: David Webster leaves everything and everyone behind, except the war. Joe Liebgott is alone and desperate enough to read something that isn't a comic. The end of the war is just the beginning.





	1. Chapter 1

The first time you don’t die in combat, you think it’s because you’ve done something to deserve to live. You think this, even though you don’t really believe it, because it’s the only way you can get your hands to stop shaking long enough to light a cigarette. You think this, because there’s no other way to account for that incessant pounding in your chest because your heart is beating I WANT THIS. I STILL WANT TO LIVE despite the fact that everything around you is twisted metal or twisted flesh. You think this is your chance. Home is unrecognizable. Your chance to really make something out of yourself. You can’t look in the mirror.

This is only the first time you don’t die in combat. The second time, your buddy bleeds out by himself, left in a puddle of mud. This time, you can’t believe anything.

* * *

David Webster appreciates quiet nights. And he doesn’t mean quiet nights in the physical sense – although it’s fantastic when they can go a day without being shelled – but _quiet_ in his mind. There are patrols scheduled for the next day, but for now, he’s cocooned in his cot and is contemplating pulling out his journal when Joe Liebgott slinks into the room.

Revise that. Joe Liebgott doesn’t really _slink_. There is something about him that is unsettling, but there is nothing about him that is deceptive. He makes the room his own the moment he enters it. He has David’s complete attention, even though he pretends to be fiddling with a piece of string on his blanket.  
  
“What’cha up to, Web?”

David senses a trap. 

“I--- nothing. Just waiting.”

Joe slides across the floor towards the cot, and David feels his body recoiling.

“Tired, Web? Doesn’t seem like you should be.” David won’t look in Joe’s eyes, but he’s sure they’re lighting up with the joy of malice.

“I’m fine.”

Joe gets closer – very close, and he’s suddenly running a hand across the beam separating his bunk from the bunk on top of his. There’s a moment – a strange, fleeting moment where David thinks Joe is actually about to climb in the bed with him. He doesn’t. Instead, he reaches for the pack perched at the end of his bed and starts rummaging through it.

“You got any cigarettes?” Joe says, and David stares. He’s used to Joe’s quiet invasions of privacy (stares that last longer than necessary. . . quick little touches when no one is looking. . . god fucking _DAMNIT_ what does he have to do for forgiveness?) but this is a step further. 

“Joe –"

“Been out since Bastogne_.”_

Joe’s lie bites, but it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. _Bastogne_ is less of an insult as it is part of the strange game that they are playing. It’s a game, but he doesn’t know how it ends. He doesn’t know who wins. David sits up, watching him go through his pack as though he is helpless to stop it.

“You could just ask, you know.”  
  
Joe doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls a tattered book from David’s pack. It’s _A Farewell to Arms._ Joe’s lips are remarkably red as they curl up into a familiar sneer. 

“Hemingway, huh? I’ve heard of that guy. Got hit the first time we decided to come over to this place, right?” Joe says.  
  
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, he was injured in Italy. In Milan, actually.” David pulls a curled, slightly damp cigarette from his pocket and lights it.

“Wish we were fighting the Italians. Buncha rats.”

“Don’t let Guarnere hear you say that. Hemingway got taken out pretty early. Fell in love with a nurse, actually.”

“Yeah right. That shit won’t happen except in the films.” Joe seems to grow bored of the book. He gives it a slight shake of the head before slamming it shut and placing it on back on the bed. But of course, he is not bored of David. Instead, he leans forward and grabs the cigarette from David’s mouth. He takes his time putting it in his mouth and draws a long breath. David used to think that Joe’s eyes are black. But now, he sees for the first time that they are actually a very bright brown.

It isn’t long before Joe is gone. He takes the cigarette before starting off. But he has a second thought, and he comes back and takes the book.

* * *

David gets more drunk on his last night in Europe than he’s been since the war started. He’s not alone, either. Most of the men are deep into many beers. It’s a warm June night and there is something like _hope _floating in the air amongst the fireflies, and the men’s spirits are lifted high by the increasingly likely prospect of making out of this alive.

The men are raucous. Babe has got a card game going that’s got the whole place occupied. After a few hours of losing money, David retreats to a corner in the back of the room and nurses a beer. He’s vaguely dizzy and warm, and he’s wondering if there will be some part of him that misses this when he comes home when he feels a hand wrap tight around his bicep. He doesn’t have to look to see who it is, but one look at Joe’s expression is enough to tell him that he’s gone.

“C’mere, Web. I gotta talk to ya.” Joe is unsteady. The only thing that is supporting him is the leg pressed against the back of David’s chair.

“What? _Now_?”

“Yeah. Now!” Joe hisses, and he’s holding David’s arm so tightly that he’s cutting off the circulation. Joe yanks him forward, and David stumbles out of his chair. He curses under his breath, but follows Joe as he makes his way through the men. David wonders if any of them notice.

They make their way out into the night, and for a brief moment, David is taken in by the sweet scent of pine in the summer air, and by the sound his feet make crunching against the gravel. It’s a moment before Joe turns to face him again. 

“That book. Hemingway, you know? I don’t like it.”

David’s drunk, so it takes him a moment to register what Joe says. He scoffs, and immediately regrets it.

“Fuck you, Web. I can read a fucking book, alright?” He pulls out a light. “I just don’t like it. Christ, it’s like he didn’t even _fight_ in a war. Always going on about how much he had to drink that day or what girls he had the night before with his buddies… Fuck, that’s not what it’s like.”

David (thankfully) decides it would be rude to congratulate Joe on the fluency of his analysis. But that doesn’t stop him from breaking into the first grin he’s had since some replacements got shot up by some locals last Tuesday.

“That’s the whole point of Hemingway. You’re supposed to fill in what he _doesn’t_ say with your imagination.” David mirrors Joe with his own light. He wonders if Joe realizes he’s nearly standing on his boots.

“What’s the point of that, huh? This asshole thinks he’s got it all figured out--- how are you supposed to know it’s there if you don’t say anything about it?” He’s so close. David can smell the alcohol on his breath. 

“I --- isn’t it _obvious_?” David says, and he wonders if (_hopes_?) they’re having two different conversations at once. He wonders if Joe knows that he is close enough to kiss him. He wonders if Joe knows their lips are inches away.

Joe shakes his head and gives David a last glance before stepping backwards. “Nothing’s obvious.”

And then, he’s gone in the night. David finishes his smoke. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who is reading so far!!! it means a lot to hear from you <33

The day David gets the letter is like any other day. Which means that it’s not quite a terrible day, but it’s not really good, either. 

His apartment is a mess of books and unfinished notebooks, which is just the way he likes it. Ashtrays are strewn about incomprehensibly. Somewhere over the past few months, a cat has taken up nesting in the empty spaces on his couch. It’s as close to home as he wants to be.

It’s half past midnight, and David has had enough of being stuck inside with his own thoughts. He can’t write – not tonight. Every word he’s put to paper has sounded remote and aloof, as though he’s someone who has only _ heard _about the men fighting the war rather than the man who did the fighting himself. He can’t put emotions to paper. It’s all cliché and overdone and redundant, and he’s growing increasingly frustrated.

So he does what he does any time he can’t write, which happens to be most nights, and grabs his coat. He’s headed out the door when he realizes he’s forgotten to feed the cat.

* * *

New York City is beautiful this time of year. It’s one of those rare nights where the streets are covered in fresh and untrodden snow. Almost no one is venturing out in the cold, and it suits David just fine.

He makes his way to his usual haunt (a small writer’s pub) and is about to step inside when he sees _ him _ across the street. David’s stomach drops. Joe can’t be here. No—he’s in San Francisco, driving his cab.

There’s only a moment’s hesitation before David is crossing the street, boots leaving behind heavy tracks in the snow. He barely notices the several cabbies honking at him as he darts across. It’s too late – Liebgott has disappeared into the door in front of him.

David steps inside, stomping his boots against the floor and placing his coat on the coat rack. He scans the bar. It’s more _ alive _ than he’s used to. There is a crowd of bullish looking women hovered towards the back, engaged in a series of arm-wrestling competitions. The men are raucous and singing. He suddenly feels utterly alone, and Liebgott is nowhere in sight.

Begrudgingly, he takes a seat at the bar and orders himself a drink. The bartender has pursed lips and the corners of his eyes are upturned, as though he’s holding back from saying something. But David stares into his beer, watching the bubbles erupt from the bottom of the glass.

It’s only a moment or two before a man takes a seat at the stool next to him. Immediately, David’s heart sinks. It’s not Joe – not remotely. The man has the same frame (small but inexplicably imposing) and the same hair (sleek and thick – almost like oil), but the similarities end there. He is Joe, if everything that makes him Joe (the knowing smirk, the devious and flickering eyes, the smooth red lips) was missing.

David pulls deeply from his drink, expecting nothing more. But the man speaks— unnervingly, he is missing Joe’s unplaceable accent.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?”

“New to the City? Yes.”

The man just stares at him a moment before shaking his head. David wonders if he’s suppressing a laugh.

“Name’s Frank. And you?”

“Webster. David Webster.”

The conversation is easy and flows like the beer that seems to magically refill in his glass. He is disappointed to learn that this man is educated and from a nice family in the City— nothing like Joe Liebgott. Quite truthfully, however, this is the first person he’s spoken to in days and it’s not long before he’s growing warm as the beer and conversation fill him. 

“I meant to go back home after everything was over. You know, back to my parents or back to Cambridge. But I just— I kept getting the feeling that if I went home, everything would be different. And I don’t think I’m ready to face that yet.”

The man is a careful listener. He has never been to war. He probably thinks David is a hero. David won’t bother to correct him.

“Different how?”

David shakes his head. “I just don’t think anyone would expect to see me looking like this.”

The man smirks a very unLiebgott-like smirk. “I think you look pretty good.”

David shakes his head more forcefully, like he’s trying to be rid of something. “No, no. I’m not the same. They’ll notice. I can’t sleep anymore. I toss and turn all night. I have to leave the room if I’m not getting enough air. I can’t stop smoking. I can’t stop cursing. I’m not--”

The man places a finger on David’s open lips. David’s eyes widen, and he stares back into the face of the man. He feels his heart pound out into his throat. _ Fuck _. 

“Hey -- it’s alright,” the man says, placing a hand on the back of David’s neck. The hairs on the back of his arms stand up. 

“I think -- I’m sorry. I think you’ve got the wrong idea.”   
  
David stands up abruptly, knocking the drink out of the hands of the man. He stumbles backwards. The eyes of the entire bar are upon him, but he doesn’t notice anything but the stinging heat of the man’s hand against his neck. 

David is out in the night air before he has time to put on his coat. His throat stings-- and it’s not because he’s been drinking. No, it’s because he wants to cry. 

He stomps down the path back to his apartment, barely noticing that the snow has started to fall again and that the temperature has fallen a good twenty degrees since he’s last been outside. It isn’t until he’s inside again that he becomes aware of the numbing cold.

_ Bastogne. _

The word echoes in his head like a bullet shot through a helmet. 

He rummages throughout the apartment, biting his lip to keep the tears from bubbling to the surface. Finally, he comes across the only bottle of liquor in his apartment that isn’t empty and takes a giant swig. Unwashed cups and glasses lay abandoned in his sink. 

He sits down and takes the bottle with him. The letter -- the fucking letter is sitting on his overflowing table, somehow making itself known amongst the hundreds of pages of chicken scrawl. David is hot with liquor and anger. He grabs the letter again, intentionally destroying the edges with uncareful fingers. After a moment, he reads it for the second time that night:

_ Dear David, _

David twitches at the sound of Liebgott using his first name. 

_ I know it’s been a while since you’ve heard from me. I’ve been real busy. Turns out, everyone’s got money for a cab now that the war is over. With all this cash coming in, I’ve been living like a real king. I got a new place. It’s not too far from the Bridge and the ocean looks real nice when the sun is shining. I think you’d like it. _

_ You should come see me sometime. It’s not so cold this time of year in California. Besides, I read that book of yours again. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it. _

_ Hope to hear from you soon. _

_ Joe Liebgott _

David hands are shaking by the time he finishes the letter. He shakes his head, once in disbelief and once because he thinks he _ knows _what this is about and where this is headed. His stomach is churning and he knows he ought to lie down and think on it, just wait to see how he feels tomorrow, but no -- this feels urgent. He pulls out a pen and starts to write.

* * *

Joe Liebgott hasn’t sleep in two days, but fuck if he’s feeling anything but pure bliss. He could zip through the streets of this city in his sleep, pausing every now and again to honk at some bastard who forgets his turn signal or to roll down his window and scream at whatever knucklehead’s going the wrong way down a one way street. 

He’s zipping through women just as slick and slippery. Anna’s the one with the nice blonde hair and the curtains that match. She lasts a few weeks, but asks him too many questions about the scars on his neck. Rachel is better -- she’s Jewish and has a body that would make any man sing. But she’s too quiet. Joe convinces himself that she’s reading his thoughts, and she’s gone before long. Finally, there’s Deb, who Joe has half the sense to marry, but she runs off with a Marine next door with more than a couple of fancy medals. This all suits him quite fine. He isn’t really looking for anything or anyone. Why would he be? He’s come back from the war with the badges of a hero and the money bags of a miser. He’s got nothing but blue skies ahead.  
  
Except that it’s now winter, and work is slowing down. Men who have been lolling around the streets of San Francisco with nothing better to do than get drunk and trade war stories are finally going home. The women are packing up with them. Joe’s fine on dough, but he isn’t made for skittering around the empty streets all day, waiting for work. He’s antsy and he needs to move. 

He yawns, leaning his head against the wheel for a moment before turning onto the street where his new apartment is. His Ma and Pa are real happy with this one -- he’s got a bigger place than any of the rest of his siblings combined. But Joe isn’t one to keep it all for himself -- he’s dolling out more than a few hundred a month to keep everyone in the family on their feet. 

He pulls into his usual parking space (after screaming at the kid who always leaves his bike there) and steps out of his cab. It’s colder than he remembers, and he rubs his arms up and down while making a mental note that he’s got to buy himself a jacket. He rummages for the key in his stuffed pockets (gum, old phone numbers, a lucky bullet from Normandy) before finding it and letting himself into the apartment.

Joe’s apartment is spacious and a good deal cleaner than anyone in his life might expect. After all, he wasn’t exactly a neat person before the war. But something about finally having more than a shared foxhole to his name has changed him, and his apartment is clean, if not a bit sterile. He flips on the switch. There’s a single envelope slotted through the mail slot. The handwriting on the front stands out, stark as blood on snow. 

Joe bites his lip, snatching the letter from the floor as though someone might take it if he leaves it.

It’s been more than several weeks since Joe sent that letter. At first, he passed the time by making a bet with himself that he’d get the letter before he had to shave. But Joe’s beard grows ragged and scraggly after a while, and he cuts it off because his reflection reminds him of cold woods and dead friends. After a while, he wonders if the letter might have gotten lost. People are always moving after the war. Joe thinks this, because the other possibility doesn’t occur to him. There is no way that Webster could intentionally fail to write. Nah, not _ Webster _. Guy can’t resist the chance to yap.

The letter is between his fingers, and he is careful not to damage it as he opens it. He slides out the thin, expensive looking paper and unfolds it:

_ Joe, _

_ I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can make it to San Francisco. I think you were right about the book. It might be best if this chapter ends here. _

_ Best, _

_ David _

Joe sits down for a long moment, pulling his legs up to his knees. Webster _ knows _ . His skin prickles. He _ knows _ . He hasn’t been imagining whatever _ thing _ has been going on between them. They’ve never had to admit it, never had to talk about it, but it’s so _ obvious _. 

Webster knows, and yet— he doesn’t want… he’s doesn’t want him. 

Joe’s stomach twists like a snake.


End file.
